


Dancing in the Dark

by TycoonTwister



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fake Dating, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Injury Recovery, Percival with the Eyepatch, meet the parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-15 17:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13035699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TycoonTwister/pseuds/TycoonTwister
Summary: Seraphina Picquery has a problem - her parents are coming to New York, and expect to find her engaged. Seraphina has a solution - Percival Graves, her gorgeous, funny, damaged best friend who's just been rescued after months of pain and torture.It's a recipe for disaster. It's a headache waiting to happen.And they're both too stubborn to back off.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_needless_litany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_needless_litany/gifts).



> Written for the excellent Fantastic Gifts 2017. Fake dating. Imbolc is the Celtic day of Brigid, Goddess of light and fire, generally celebrated on February 1. The historical accuracy of it is kind wobbly, but - I really needed a non-Christmas related winter holiday. Merry Christmas!

**Part One**

Seraphina covered the receiver of the phone, tugged at her hair in stress like she hadn’t done since she was sixteen, and kicked at her coffee table till the desire to punch holes through the wall somehow subsided. 

_Somehow._

She had forgotten about it. She had completely, utterly, tragically forgotten about his parents’ intention to drop by for the Imbolc gala, when for twenty years they had been more than happy to wait for her yearly visit at the family’s sprawling manor in sticky Georgia. 

Fighting the megalomaniac psycho who took your best friend’s place and then nearly losing said best friend tends to do that to a person. 

His father’s rumbling voice brought her back to the present – forcing the images of the Healers’ operation tables sleek with Percival’s blood back in the tiny little box in the back of her mind. 

“Seraphina,” Ronald Picquery the Third roared down the line, “you didn’t answer my question.” 

There was a promise of reproach in his words – and they hadn’t even really talked yet. 

Seraphina swallowed. For the first time in years, she had no idea what to do. 

Because while forgetting about her parents coming, she also forgot about what she told them last time she saw them. Before everything fell apart and her world caught fire like no-Maj gasoline. 

Seraphina adjusted her hold on the receiver, and pondered. She was good at pondering. She knew with absolute certainty that if she called her own bluff, she’d never hear the end of it. And Percival would probably get caught in the crossfire, too, just because he gave in to her deranged plan out of sheer friendship – and that was the last thing he needed. That was the only thing she would never, never let happen. The one promise she wouldn’t break. 

_Again._

Not that the alternative looked much brighter. But it was something she could work on. Make more bearable. Make easier. 

_Yeah. Sure thing, Phina,_ snickered her conscience, which had the disquieting habit of sounding like Percival Graves himself. 

“Ah, yes, Father,” she finally answered – stuttered – in the phone. “I’m here.” 

“Mh. Started to fear you lost your tongue, daughter. So? Is he going to be there as well?” 

She could almost see him, sitting in the mauve velvet armchair in the living room, sucking on his evening cigar as her mom Magic-knits by his side. It would usually make her feel like a gangly teenager all over again, so naïve, so so young. 

But not today. After what happened, Seraphina didn’t think she’d ever be able to feel young again. 

“Of course he will,” she said. “Of course Percival will join us. He’s my fiancé, after all, isn’t he?” 

_Isn’t he?_

*** 

_Monday._ Of course _it had to be a Merlin-damned Monday._

Seraphina tapped hard on her desk, nails clicking softly against the wood. She cast a quick glance at the gargoyle-shaped clock hanging from the wall – a vile thing Percival himself got her for her promotion and that she kept just to spite him – and pondered the possibility of chugging down another potion. Even since her call with her parents the night before, she had felt too jittery to sleep a single minute. 

Which didn’t make the task ahead any simpler. 

She knew from a familiarity born from years spent patrolling the streets and avidly and ruthlessly climbing the ranks together that Percival hated Mondays, and exactly to what extent. He was the classic fake early bird – unable to remember his name before inhaling at least a couple of cups of coffee and miserable every time he got to leave his bed before nine in the morning. She remembered with perfect clarity the morning during their Auror Intership’s first month he asked her to Magick caffeine directly in his bloodstream. He had been only mildly put off by her pointing out it would probably kill him. 

Judging from his face as he lurked in the background of the Auror Offices, Grindelwald didn’t change that. Although Seraphina suspected it wasn’t the early call souring his mood – but lack of sleep. 

Lack of _any_ sleep, if the dark ring under his right eye was any indication. 

The gargoyle clock struck nine, announcing it with a raucous croak. Scarcely a second later, Percival Graves, her newly reinstated Director of Magical Security, rapped on her door. 

She just knew it was him – even before she threw his way a “come in” and he walked in her office. She knew his magic so well she could just _feel_ Percival approaching – a change in the air, a flutter of energy. The way you feel the first chill of Autumn blowing in the late summer wind. 

Or at least, she had thought she could. 

Percival stopped in front of her desk, back ramrod straight, hands loosely clasped behind his back. 

He said nothing. She couldn’t help her frown. 

“You’re not sleeping,” Seraphina said. It wasn’t a question. “And you’re not eating nearly enough either. Are you taking the integrator potions Healer Sullivan gave you?” 

Percival cocked his head, eyebrows arching, like he were mildly concerned _she_ had gone off the deep end. Seraphina was still worried, but suddenly wanted to punch his stupid face too. “Madame the President, this is hardly the urgent matter your memo led me to –” 

“Bullshit,” she replied, tersely. “I know you’re not an invalid and are still a perfectly rational man capable of taking care of your well-being, Percival – so if you planned on accusing me of that, save your breath. But I also know you’re utterly devoted to all that self-sacrificing shit. You’re barely able to stand, Graves. You’re thin enough clothes hang off you like you’ve been raiding your big brother’s closet. If you want to work, fine – but you have to be in the physical conditions not to topple over poor Delgado at any given minute.” 

At this, Percival had the decency of looking subdued. He shrank in himself a bit, too, looking smaller and frailer than a second before, and that Phina didn’t like in the least. She had no choice, though. When he asked her to come back to work three weeks prior the minimum leave the Healers recommended, she had given in – but it didn’t mean she’d be an accomplice in his little self-destructive mission. She had to convince him to take care of himself, for his sake. For both their sakes. 

Truth be told, Seraphina wasn’t sure she would be able to deny him anything ever again. 

She sighed. Running one hand through her cloud of short white hair, softening her voice. “So. Are you eating?” 

Percival licked his lips, but didn’t sit down. Probably just to prove he could. “I… I’m trying. But I need to… get used to it again.” He gave a shrug. “Goldstein forces me to drink that vile energetic concoction the young Scamander came up with, though. Twice a day. He said it powered him through three weeks in the arctic wastelands or something. Tastes so bad it makes me want to cry.” 

Seraphina felt a half smile tug at her lips, and let it bloom to full force when she saw a mirror smirk on Percival’s face. Then she forced herself to turn serious. “And the sleeping part?” 

Percival faltered. It was barely visible – a tightening around his eyes, blood rushing off his skin. As if he were losing consistency. 

“It’s… hard.” 

Seraphina stopped breathing. Percival tore his eyes off her, fastening them on the perfect pink ovals of her nails. Her heart lurched in her chest, but she wouldn’t ask for more. She wasn’t that cruel. She wouldn’t stoop so low. 

Instead, she forced down air, and moved to the matter at hand. A raging, murderous Percival would always be better than a hurting one, after all. 

“So,” she said. Cleared her throat. “Back to the reason I called you here… I understand you got my memo?” 

“Uh-huh.” Percival squinted – eyes locking back on her. He still looked a bit too pale for her taste, but there was a familiar, sharp suspiciousness about him. “Said it was urgent. And above top secret.” 

“Indeed,” Seraphina replied. She steepled her hands, and called on every ounce of formal nonchalance in her body. “I need you for a job, Percival. Actually, more like a… favor. A personal favor.” 

Percival squinted _harder_. “A personal favor?” 

“Yup,” Seraphina nodded, wondering idly how many Macusa employees would die from sheer shock at hearing their President using the word _yup_. “My – my parents are coming over for Imbolc. They’ll attend the Parade of Lights and the subsequent Macusa gala on February 1.” 

“Oh,” Percival said, cautiously. Seraphina watched a puzzled line cleave his brow. “O-kay, I _guess_?” 

“You’d clearly understand I’ve not been in the right… frame of mind to properly prepare for their presence, or to remember about the visit at all.” 

“Yes,” Percival said. 

“And you know how… persistent my parents can be when it comes to certain topics.” 

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Percival said, more emphatically. Last time they met Mr and Mrs Picquery at her little sister’s wedding, her father challenged Percival to a duel, and her best friend miraculously managed to politely win it with almost no harm to Mr Picquery’s pride, and a twisted shoulder on his part. 

All in all, it had been the most successful meet-the-parents date Seraphina had ever been to. 

“Well,” she said. Locking eyes with him without giving herself time to be scared of what she could find there. “I won’t beat around the bush, Percival. They’re coming in two days – and I can’t deal with my father’s drama on top of everything else. They like you, and have known you for most part of our lives. And I haven’t had the chance to tell them it didn’t work out between us.” She swallowed, munching on the inside of her cheek. “So, I need you to play my pretend fiancé one more time, Percy.” 

Percival’s frown rippled out of his face like a ring on the water. He gaped – mouth opening and closing like a drowning fish. Any residual color vanished from his face, and he grew so pale Seraphina felt actually afraid he was about to collapse on the delicate purple-and-gold embroideries of her rug. 

Then, he laughed. An edge of hysteria flickering about it. 

“Ha ha,” he croaked, “ _Ha_. You’re joking Phina, right? Mercy Lewis, you almost got me here. But it’s a joke. It _has to_ be. Right?” 

Seraphina said nothing. Percival gave a second laugh, equally uneasy and equally mechanical, as if he desperately wished to make her laugh her proposal off by proxy. But the truth was he knew her too well not to read through her silence. Not to realize she meant every word. 

Not to realize she really, desperately needed him. 

She could see the moment the laugh died in his throat. Percival swallowed, his dark right eye widening in shock. His pulse started thundering under his skin, barely visible over the shirt collar. “Seraphina,” he warned, using the full name which wasn’t anywhere near the friendly sassiness of “Picquery” nor any closer to the intimacy of “Phina”, but just an ugly hybrid between the two, “you can’t be serious. You can’t be asking this of me.” 

There was a _please_ , snagged on the words – a hint of begging. It hit her like a punch to the jaw. “I’m afraid I am,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “It won’t be for long, Percival – I swear. Three days, tops. Minimal contact. The bare minimum to get them off my back. You’d barely realize it’s happening.” 

Percival still looked gray enough to rival the bodies lined on the Macusa’s morgue’s slabs, but his eye turned into a slit. She immediately knew she had made a mistake. If there was something Percival Graves would always be preternaturally sensitive to, it was condescending tones. 

She tried to amend. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like – “ 

“Is it some kind of sick joke for you, Phina?” Percival asked, suddenly. Calmly. “Asking your damaged, maimed Director to play your fake boyfriend and what, piss off your Daddy?” 

The harshness of his tone hurt almost as much as his begging. Almost. Seraphina looked up with a sharp intake of breath, feeling her fingers closing around the edge of her desk – her magic cracking around her, answering to her distress. Percival of all people knew it wasn’t that easy with her father – how deep both affection and hurt ran in their case. 

Since his rescue, she had tried her hardest not to get angry at him. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to swallow everything down for much longer. “Why should I do something like that?” she snapped. 

Percival gave a chuckle – mirthless enough to chill both of them to the bone. “C’mon, Phina. You’re gorgeous. You’re the fucking President of Macusa. You’re really telling me you can’t find anything better than…” He swallowed. Gestured to himself, lips twisted in a sneer. “…than _this_?” 

Feeling almost physically aware of the dumb expression painted on her face, Seraphina followed his hand. He touched his chest, his neck, the white lace of scars swirling up his wrists. 

His eye. 

Suddenly, Seraphina understood. She felt the air leave her lungs in a rush, heart stuttering. 

_You can’t find anything better than this wreck?_

_Oh, Percival._

She cleared her throat – magic waning, turning golden, soothing. When she found her voice, it still sounded so small – completely inadequate. “No, no Graves – it’s not a joke. I swear. My parents love you. Hell, when she saw us at Galatea’s wedding my Mom was one step from bumping you on the head and make me marry your unconscious self.” She cracked a smile, feeling it wobbly around the edges. “They couldn’t think of a better sui – “ 

“That was months ago, Phina,” Percival said, words thick with agony. “That was _before_.” He started fumbling with his collar, tugging it back to reveal a strip of burnt skin, the misshaped corner of his still-healing collarbone. “You really think the noble descendants of the Picquery family, the parents of the brightest witch of her age, would accept _this_? A poor excuse of an ex-Auror?” His hand rushed up his body, shaking. Tapping at the black eye patch covering the ruin where his left eye had been. “A one-eyed _invalid_?” 

“They know you’ve done nothing but your duty, Grindelwald notwithstanding,” Seraphina replied. She was breathing through every word, articulating them with utter care, not wanting to stop, because she wasn’t sure she would be able to do this any other way. “They know you’ve fought valiantly. That you have nothing to be ashamed of – “ 

“This is _crap,_ Phina.” Percival’s fists banged on her desk, without warning – the impact hard enough to send her stacks of papers and brass pen-holder rattling and shuddering across the table. “This is the goddamn crap you feed the press vultures and the dimwitted assholes on the board, and I’m okay with that. But it doesn’t change a damn thing. You’re right, I’m a wreck. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can barely stand up straight.” He leaned forward, nails clawing at the wood, teeth bared. “I’m not _okay_. I’m functional, more or less – but I’m, not, okay. I’m not sure I’m ever gonna be okay again. And I bet your Dad wouldn’t want you to play nurse to your spouse for the rest of your life.” 

“It has been long since I cared what my father wants for me,” Seraphina replied – jaw clenched hard enough to feel tendrils of pain shoot up through her brain. 

She expected more fight. More anger. Instead, Percival deflated before her eyes – shoulders slumping, turning inconsistent again. Diaphanous. 

He blinked, and the longing in his eyes was so hopeless, so lucid, Seraphina wondered how he hadn’t drown in it yet. 

“I know, Phina. But I know I’m with him on this one. I know _I_ wouldn’t want this for you.” 

Silence fell. Seraphina knew she should say something, knew how many things could be misunderstood in a silence. But for a long moment, she was simply too shell-shocked to do anything but stare – as if she’d just been blown up by a grenade. The ringing in her ears was the same: the shivers rippling up her spine, too. 

She watched Percival search her face, and then back away, long hands sliding slowly off her desk, as if he didn’t want to break the contact either. 

She stopped him at the last available second. Catching his wrist, gently – mindful of his scars. “But I _would_ ,” she said in a rush, the world rolling out of her lips before she could register them, “I would want that for me. I would want to help you getting back on your feet. I _would_. Taking care of you would be a great privilege, Percival Graves.” 

Percival gasped. She had felt him freeze under her touch, stiffen up – his pulse speeding against her fingertips. Now she heard his sharp intake of breath, the quiver running down his arm as he met her eyes. She realized it was the first time in months that she really touched him. She realized she had missed it. 

She realized she meant every word she said. 

Doubt flashed across her best friend’s face. It was gone in a heartbeat, carefully buried under layers of polite blankness, but she saw it. She gave his wrist a light squeeze, to remind him it was just her, to remind him he could cut the crap. 

“Phina,” Percival said, very slowly. “I wasn’t kidding before. I am kind of a wreck. I’m not sure I could… _fake_ it good enough.” 

Seraphina clasped her lips together. “I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important, Percy” she replied. “But I really can’t call it off – it would lead to a thousand more issues. And I need someone I can trust completely – someone I’m completely at ease with. I’m struggling, Percival. The Macusa is reeling. The English Ministry is breathing on my neck. The public practically hates us.” She ran a hand through her hair with her free hand – feeling her fingers snagging on the short locks. “And to answer your question, no. I can’t think of anyone else but you, Graves.” 

Percival said nothing, chest still rising and falling quickly – his eye burning holes through her skull. He’s examining her. Evaluating her, every gaze, every touch, every twitch of her eyes and her mouth, looking for a lie. 

She let him dig, and prod, deeper and deeper and deeper. Till he straightened, munching on his lip, and she knew she passed the test. 

“You’re a manipulative asshole, you know that, right?” Percival said, tone conversational. 

“Yup.” 

“And completely shameless.” He cut her a squinty look. “Three days, you said? Plus the Macusa Imbolc Gala?” 

“Yes.” Seraphina gave a shrug, even as her legs turned into wet paper under her desk. The relief flooding her veins was so intense it left her dizzy. “You know my Mother hates New York – especially in winter. We’ll go get them at the station, have one dinner with them, then go the gala – and that’s it. Mr and Mrs Picquery happily shipped back to Savannah. Easy peasy.” 

“Easy peasy,” Percival parroted – exaggerating the note of horror in his voice. He threw in a fake body-rattling shiver too, for good measure. “Why am I condemned to be the only one to witness the side of Madame the President’s personality who cheerfully says things like ‘easy peasy’?” 

“Because I like you,” Seraphina replied good-naturally – patting his hand. “So sorry about that.” 

Her voice sobered. She had let go of his wrist, but hadn’t taken back her hand – letting it trail down his palm, lacing their fingers together. And squeezing hard. 

“You’re not forced to say yes, Percy,” she whispered. “But if you do, I swear I won’t let anything and anyone hurt you. Even if it means kicking my father’s ass out of the Jersey and all the way back to Georgia.” She rubbed at his fingers – warming them between hers. “I swear I’ll make it easy. I swear I’ll protect you. And I won’t let you down.” 

Memories rushed to the surface, unbidden, and threatened to tear her apart. This same office, the low lights of a late Friday night, a man with her best friend’s skin, a kiss. She swallowed it all, pushing it down, locking it in her neat little box. 

_Not again. I won’t let you down again._

Percival’s jaw was working – the muscles feathering in his cheek. He gave a curt nod, tearing his gaze off her. 

“Okay, Phina,” he breathed. A rosy shade was spreading across his cheeks, all the way down his neck. At any other moment in time, she’d tease him mercilessly about it. Right now, she wasn’t sure she could talk past the lump stuck in her throat. “I – I trust you. I’m in.” 

She beamed up at him, smiling – one of the rare, real smiles only a handful of people in the country knew she was capable of. It had been so long since the last time it made her mouth hurt from disuse. “Thank you, Graves.” 

“You’re welcome, Picquery.” 

He offered a mock-bow, one hand pressed against his chest like an old-time knight, and made her chuckle. He grinned back, and told her he’d drop by her place that evening for the details, and prepared to leave. 

As she bid him good day and he pushed past the door, Seraphina stared at his back. She knew he was tired, even if he didn’t want to let her see it. The nightmare of stitches crisscrossing his chest probably itched like a bitch; the eyepatch was still unsettling to look at. Still, there was a stern kind of beauty about him – like glass, or polished wood. And her hand still burned with the memory of his fingers against hers – their shape seared into her skin. 

_I’ll protect you, Percival,_ she swore, as the door clicked closed behind him. She could barely remember how it felt not to taste guilt on the tip of her tongue. 

_Merlin, please, let me protect him._


	2. Part Two

**Part Two**

The night Tina Goldstein and the mismatched team of Aurors she had assigned her found Percival, Seraphina cut her hair. 

After hours spent trudging through the New York sewer system, waiting in the cold hallways of the emergency ward of the Macusa Hospital, biting off the heads of despairing medics and half-bullying half-begging them to try and to keep Percival Graves alive, Seraphina dragged herself home, peeled off her silk gowns – still drenched in his dried blood – and sat in front of her vanity mirror with a big pair of silver scissors. She started cutting with brisk, jerky motions, biting down on her lip hard enough to keep herself from thinking a single thought. 

They got Grindelwald. Percival’s heart was still beating – for tonight, at least. New York wasn’t burning. 

She had won this battle. 

She had lost her war. 

She worked rapidly, methodically, even if she couldn’t hold her hands nearly still enough. They were shaking so hard she nicked her face a couple of times, but she didn’t mind the pain. She welcomed it. 

As rich swirls of white curls heaped around her chair, she forced herself to remember. She forced herself to remember the first morning Grindelwald wore her best friend’s face, and she didn’t see it. She forced herself to remember the brushing of hands, the words rolling against her skin, the pressure of lips against lips. She forced herself to remember how strange it felt, how faintly wrong. How _good_ it felt. 

She wouldn’t let herself forget a single thing. The Healers were persuaded Percival wasn’t going to survive the night, but told her that even if he did, he would never heal from some of scars. She didn’t see why she shouldn’t bear hers, too. 

By the time she was done, the gray-rose light of dawn was streaming through her shutters – sucking colors out of things. Her crown of pale hair was gone. The result was a messy bob, barely reaching her neck, the cut uneven. The woman staring at her from the mirror had bloodshot eyes and scraped lips, the cheekbones pushing under her skin. She was still beautiful, though, and that made Seraphina seethe with rage. 

But she looked painfully young, too. Painfully lost. 

_As she should, as she should._

She sat there for another long moment, sending to memory the tired face framed by chunks of white hair, listing each of her sins till she felt sure she could recite them in her sleep. She realized she was due to go back to the Macusa in two hours. She realized her best friend could be dead by now. 

And then, and only then, Seraphina curled up in her chair, and cried. 

*** 

When she heard Tina Goldstein’s worried voice and a familiar stomping pace rush up the flight of stairs leading to the Auror Offices, Seraphina seriously wondered when, exactly, she lost her mojo so spectacularly. 

Exactly two nights before, in front of two well-earned shots of fire-whiskey – she figured that while not being exactly medically-approved, the circumstances kind of warranted one – she had promised Percival everything was going to be as smooth as things could possibly be. Perfectly planned. Extra quick. Extra easy. 

_Two_ nights before. Just two fucking nights before. 

And now they were not even there yet, and everything was already turning into an epic shitstorm fast enough to make her head spin. 

As the voices and the shuffling got closer, Seraphina tilted her head to the side – rubbing at her temple with a grimace. Before this madness was over, she seriously feared for her and Percival and their shared predisposition to stress migraines. 

The two of them were standing in the doorway between the hallway and the offices, trying to figure out the last loose ends of the quarterly report before sending it up to the Board. Percival looked up from the pile of manila folders opened in his arms, eyebrows twitching upward. 

“Headache?” 

“Not yet,” she groaned. There must have been something in her voice, because she watched him tense – and turn pale as soon as he caught the flurry of movement rapidly rolling towards them. Percival had always been on the full-blooded Irish side of the paleness spectrum, but with his recovery the effect had turned tenfold more dramatic. 

Seraphina saw the glimpse of betrayal in his eye. She leant in, clasping his elbow, voice thick with all the regret she was currently feeling. “I’m so sorry, Percy,” she whispered. “They were not supposed to get here before six. I have no idea why they’re here. I have no idea how they even know I’m he – “ 

“Oh, they’re your parents, Phina,” Percival sighed – sounding disheartened, but not angry. “They know _everything_.” 

That made her grin. He sighed, shifting the stack of papers under his right arm, and together they turned to face the opposite end of the hallway, in the exact moment a trio of people popped out of the door. Tina was leading the way, fluttering around like a pale-blue beetle – hands gesturing wildly and black hair bobbing with each jerk of her head. She was talking, fast and on the verge of frantic, probably listing the endless reasons a couple of civilians shouldn’t be barging in the MS headquarters on a busy Thursday morning. 

Of course, it wasn’t working. Especially on the man marching behind her – and fastening his eyes on Seraphina. 

Seeing him in flesh still made her reel – like a tidal wave nearly knocking her off her feet. 

Seeing him in flesh still made her catch her breath, and she hated herself for that. 

Ronald Picquery the Third had always been an incredibly big man in a family of big men. In his prime, on the battlefields of the magickal front of the Civil War, he had been known as the Dark Thunder, and sixty years later he was still impressive enough to fill up the hallway like a pulsing globe of strength. Power: it was etched in each vein running down his hands, every inch of his ebony skin, in the line of his massive shoulders. 

The white three-piece he was wearing was exquisite, perfectly tailored, golden buttons carved in the three moons of the Picquery coat of arms – but Seraphina saw the thunder of magic rolling underneath. 

It was the same magic coursing through her veins. 

Percival moved imperceptibly closer. Putting himself between her and his father. “Relax, Madame the President,” he whispered against her ear. “Remember you can always throw him in the dungeons, if it tickles your fancy.” 

“I admit I’ve fantasized about it sometimes,” she whispered back. 

“I _know_ you have.” 

She took a breath, and realized her lungs weren’t trying to close up on her anymore. Percival’s presence was a solid, familiar wall of warmth pressing against her shoulder. Meeting her father’s gaze still made each muscle in her body lock up and stiffen, but she did feel marginally better. 

Hell. If Percival could face him, so could she. 

A squeaky, pleased chuckle tore Seraphina’s attention off her father. Her mother was waving frantically at her and Percival, hanging on her father’s arm and matching his ridiculously long strides with a graceful ease born from fifty years of practice. Listening to Josephine Picquery’s cheery voice, the omnipresent clicking of her heels, brought an unexpected pang of nostalgia. Her and Tea’ childhood would forever sound like Mom’s pumps clicking on marble floors. 

Seraphina’s lips curved, and it almost felt like a real smile. 

“Father. Mother.” 

“Phina!” Her mother let out a joyous shriek, disentangling her arm from her husband’s – and rushing forward like a jolly mauve-colored peacock. A moment later, both Seraphina and Percival found themselves trapped in a ring of soft arms and peach perfume. She heard Percival gasp, the sound muffled against her mother’s chest. 

“And Percival! How good to see you both! Wizarding America’s very royal couple!” Her mother leant back, far enough to give both of them a good Mom-look. “Oh, if I think I remember when Percival came over during the spring break of your last Ilvermorny year, when you had just broken your nose and Phina had her brakes still on – “ 

“ _Mom!_ ” Seraphina blurted out – squeaked. The office was half-deserted, but the attention of the Aurors staring and gaping at various stages of eavesdropping felt like a burning pressure against her nape. She had almost forgotten the reason she had originally been so adamant about meeting her parents nowhere near her workplace. “ _Please_.” 

“O-kay, _ooookay_ ,” replied her mother – raising her hands to show how harmless she was. “No family tales, gotcha. It’s just that not many mothers can say they had the future Director of Magical Security help unclogging their gutters during summer.” Her smile suddenly faltered. Seraphina saw her mother’s eyes cut back on Percival, and fasten there. “You’re so skinny, my boy. How are you doing?” 

Percival was good at hiding it – always too damn good at it – but Seraphina knew her mom’s words made him flinch like a knife in the guts. She felt the blow rippling through his body. “ 

I… I’m trying my best, ma’am,” he got out, voice barely audible. 

“I would never doubt you are.” Her mother’s hazel eyes softened, and she ran a hand down Percival’s arm. 

Then, a shadow fell across them. Seraphina’s magic sizzled in her bones – answering to its kindred. 

“My daughter,” her father said. His voice rolled and rumbled like a thunder, too – the storm woven in the very essence of Picquery’s blood. He walked up to the three of them, leaving behind a very preoccupied-looking Tina. “And Mister Graves.” 

There was no sarcasm, in her father’s voice. A good thing even she couldn’t deny about him, was that Ronald Picquery had always been a fair man in recognizing others’ worth: he had always acknowledged Seraphina’s, making her his heir despite her gender, and had always recognized Percival’s too. There were no real peers in Mr Picquery’s world, but plenty of valuable opponents. 

“Father,” she greeted. 

“Sir,” Percival said, extending his hand. “Pleased to see you’re doing so well.” 

Her father’s sneered. And Seraphina’s heart skipped a beat. “How unfortunate that I cannot say the same.” 

His enormous hand swallowed Percival’s. The shirt cuff rode up, revealing a glimpse of silver scars. 

Percival kept perfectly still. 

“So my daughter told the truth,” her father went on, sounding intrigued. “You really are back on duty. Well, that’s either very brave or very stupid.” 

“I’ve always been confident I fall in the first category, sir,” Percival answered. Mr Picquery towered over him of a good head, and beside the man her best friend looked small – bird-boned. It made her skin itch with the urge of pushing him behind herself and snarl – to remind everyone she had solemnly decided nothing would ever hurt him again. 

“That’s a good answer.” Her father grinned. “Oh, well. I suppose things got a lot more, hmm, _educated_ , since my days in the force. And that nowadays you can even have a Director looking as frail as a child. Or a one-eyed one.” 

Percival clenched his jaw so hard Seraphina could hear it snap. His magic shivered through the air like the flapping of invisible wings. 

“I deserve this place, Mister Picquery,” Percival growled, so livid with rage his skin was almost glowing. He was forced to tilt back his head to look in her father’s eye – but he didn’t falter. “I wouldn’t have asked for it if I thought I wasn’t able to do my job to the best of my ability.” 

“Mh. Maybe.” Her father shrugged. “Although I presume the President’s favor did tilt the scales a bit, given your current involvement with her.” 

Percival turned gray. Pressed against Seraphina’s elbow, he swayed hard – a couple of papers slipping free of his folders and fluttering to the ground. He looked like a man struck right through the heart. He looked like a man in agony. 

Seraphina saw it all. She saw his hand move, twitching towards his chest, as if he expected to find a hex shot bleeding there. She saw the hurt twisting his features. The doubt. 

_Merlin’s ass, he thinks it could be true. He_ actually _thinks it could be true._

Seraphina’s hands curled into fists, her bones humming with power. And this time she did absolutely nothing to tamper it. 

“That’s enough, _Dad_ ,” she hissed, in something extremely close to a snarl. “I suppose you’re both bound to be tired from the trip. You should probably go settle in at the hotel. I already booked the room.” 

Slowly, deliberately, her father’s eyes flit to her. They were probably the most striking feature of the Dark Thunder’s face – and the most unsettling: large, and pale, and frosty yellow. A jaguar’s eyes. 

“I didn’t intend to disrespect anyone, Daughter.” 

“The hell you didn’t. You know, I could probably scare up a contempt charge from something like that,” she replied – voice crisp. 

Mr Picquery’s eyes turned into slits. “Are you trying to prove a point, Seraphina? That your traumatized beau is still of any use?” 

Her mother sucked in a breath – turning towards her husband fast enough to make the feathers on her hat snap in the air. “Ronald!” she called – and although not having Animagus yellow eyes, there was enough authority in her gaze to send a small army quivering in fear. “S _top it._ Percival doesn’t deserve this treatment. You know damn well he doesn’t.” 

Percival teetered on his feet. He was still standing tall, shoulders straight – but his chin was dipped, eyes locked on the tip of his shoes. Seraphina realized with a pang that she knew exactly the words he was about to say. _It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. It’s fine, fine, fine._

He’d do it. For her sake, to make things easier, because she asked him. 

She pressed closer against him – catching him off guard. Then offered her parents her brightest smile. 

“Actually, no. I wasn’t proving a point,” she declared, cheerfully. “But I am _now_.” 

Before any of them could react, Seraphina whirled around, weaved one hand in Percival’s short thick hair, and smashed their mouths together. 

Warm. Percival’s lips were so warm, and soft – their swell pressing nicely against hers. It was a close-lipped kiss, a smacking kind of kiss, but still she could catch the faintest hint of his taste in it. Coffee, and sugar. His cologne permeating everything. And everything soaked up in so much _warmth_. 

She felt Percival gasp – trembling against her body. He was breathing as if he were drowning in her kiss. Drinking it in. 

And she shivered too, because she had been so afraid he would never feel this warm again. 

Seraphina opened her eyes – not realizing she had closed them. She pulled back, looking up at Percival’s face. “You got way better at this since we were thirteen, Graves,” she whispered, lips still against his. 

Percival stuttered. And blushed furiously. “You too.” 

Seraphina belatedly realized she was still clutching at his waistcoat – hands snagging on his buttons even if she didn’t remember doing it. Touching Percival had always felt too damn easy – their bodies molding naturally to each other, finding crevices and nooks to hold on. But this was too much. This could make him uncomfortable. So she bit hard on the inside of her cheek, and took a step back – letting go of him, and turning back to her parents. 

What most people don’t get about being reckless and nasty once in a while, is that the best part isn’t doing the thing. It’s watching the faces of the people you had been reckless in front of, and bask in their well-deserved disapprobation. 

And oh, Seraphina wasn’t disappointed. In the ringing silence the office had suddenly plunged into, his father’s speechlessness still tasted the sweetest. She felt it roll on her tongue, as she took in his parted lips, the flash of white of his widening eyes, the faint tremor of rage and shock coursing up his arms. For the time of a single heartbeat, it stung, too – because no kiss deserves such rage, and especially not kissing someone like Percival Graves. But there wasn’t time to hurt. There had never been anything but war, between her and her father – glorious and passionate and ruthless. And she had just won this battle. 

A blur of movement on her father’s side made Seraphina’s concentration falter. Her mother had wrapped herself even more tightly around her husband’s arm – a delighted squeak on her lips. 

“Aren’t they absolutely _adorable_ , Ronald?” she tweeted – blinding both her and Percival with a shining smile. “They’re _so_ in love. They remind me of the two of us, when you asked my hand. Oh, yep - they’re just like us.” 

“Merlin, I do hope we’re _not_ ,” Percival murmured, low enough only Seraphina would be able to hear – and she had to fake a throat-clearing sound to cover her snort. 

Mrs Picquery didn’t hear him – or more probably, regally ignored their sass. She kept smiling, chirping about the old good days of their courtship. Seraphina’s father nodded along, punctuating her words with somehow approving grunts – his golden eyes never leaving her daughter’s. He didn’t seem about to make a scene, though. Her mother’s attention, that secret, inscrutable magic that made that formidable man melt for her, had always succeeded in what neither wars nor enemies ever did. Or he simply recognized Seraphina’s score, and decided he could let her have it. 

Either way, Seraphina heaved a sigh – small enough not to betray how much she needed it. And moved to the next issue. 

Beside her, Percival had resumed his easy-going, nonchalant pose – one hand shoved in his pocket, the other arm casually linked with hers. Still, the blush wasn’t completely gone yet – staining his cheeks like pink lacquer. 

His magic tasted nervous, too – tensed. When Seraphina tuned out her parents’ chattering, and let her eyes sweep over the rows of desk and staring eyes in the room, she realized why. 

And felt her heart plummet all the way to her shoes. 

How could have she not realized before how utterly silent the office had gone? Because it had never been so quiet – never so charged with excitement, and giddiness, and almost palpable curiosity. 

Coffee cups had been left abandoned on desks and counters. Piles of paperwork had been forgotten in the arms of their carriers. Hands froze midway in the cabinet drawer, a manila folder clutched in them. There was not a face not turned towards them – not a jaw not unhinged, not a gaze not looking puzzled and shocked and hungry. 

If it made any sense, Seraphina thought she could almost hear the whirring of gossip popping up in twenty-four heads at the same time. 

_Mercy Lewis._

_How could I have forgotten how_ fucking _gossipy Aurors are?_

Her head whipped back towards Percival – every ounce of guilt and chagrin she felt surfacing in her expression. 

She had kissed him at the Macusa. In front of a whole Department – in front of _his_ Department. She had really meant to keep it quiet, and now she had exposed him to the almost inevitable surge of office gossip – probably fated to blow out of proportion. It wouldn’t damage their careers: the Wizarding World care a lot about power and status, and not much about whatever two people do in their free time and in their own bed. But it would be stressing. It could compromise his recovery, his morale – made the nightmares worse. 

It was unprofessional. And ruthless – even for her standards. 

“Percival,” she whispered – her voice sounding choked to her own ears. She meant to apologize, to say something soothing, to say the right thing. “I, I’m so sorry – “ 

He squeezed her hand back, making her trail off. He still looked a bit flushed, his chest still rising and fall a bit faster than before – but for the first time in months, his fingers didn’t feel ice cold against hers. “No problem, Phina. War is war,” he said, softly. Swallowed. “Just… warn me next time you need this kind of performance, okay?” 

_Oh._

_Of course._ Seraphina nodded, making sure he could see the movement even as he kept his eyes fixed on the rest of the office. It was an obvious request, a reasonable one. Percival had no interest in a kiss from her – probably not from anyone, right now. There was no reason at all to take it personally. There was no reason at all it should make her feel _worse._

Finally, the usual rustle of voices and scribbling behind her resumed, and she deduced Percival had probably just graced the office with an Authentic Graves Glare – giving his Aurors third-grade blisters and persuading them to go back to work. In one of his few post-rescue playful moments, he had told her the eyepatch had improved the Glare’s power exponentially. 

She decided they had suffered enough, for one morning. All of them. 

“Well,” she blurted out, smoothing her voice in some resemblance of cheeriness, “I don’t want to keep the two of you from your room any further. You must be awfully tired – and we need to go over that report. Isn’t that right, Percy?” 

“I’m afraid it is, _sweetcheeks_.” 

Keeping her head from spinning back to stare at Percival took enough effort to give Seraphina’s a neck crick. She practically _felt_ his smirk, and clenched her jaw. Hard. 

Her parents went very silent. “Sweetcheeks?” her mother asked – the way you pronounce a foreign word hoping it’s not a profanity. 

“Percival, you know what we said about nicknames,” Seraphina gritted out. 

“Of course I know, baby girl.” Seraphina’s nails dug in Percival’s arm. He simply blinked, the very image of innocence. “Sugarplum?” 

_Good grief._

“Ah, mh – okay.” Mrs Picquery cleared her throat, eyes flitting between the two of them the exact way they had done when they were thirteen and trying to cover the fact they had accidentally set fire on the cat’s tail. “I think Phina’s right, Ronald. We should go and let the kids do their thing. We’re on for dinner tonight anyway, right?” 

“Absolutely,” Seraphina replied. The smile on her lips felt so fake it made her mouth hurt. “We’ll be there.” 

_Oh, Merlin. Kill me now._

“Then it’s settled,” her father cut in. There was still a hint of growl in his voice. “Seven thirty, sharp – at the Golden Grotto. Don’t be late.” 

“We won’t.” 

Her father’s gaze flicked back to Percival, looking both startled and annoyed, as if he had almost forgotten his presence. It only made Percival’s smirk turn sharper – less domestic. 

“I hope so,” Mr Picquery said slowly. Gave the barest nod. “Percival.” A second nod, deeper – meaningful. “Daughter.” 

“Father.” Seraphina mirrored his nod, and turned to her mother – scaring up some authentic warmth, because it _did_ feel good to see her. “Mom.” 

“My darling kids.” Her mom practically leaped forward, and tackled them both in another hug. Seraphina thought she heard her whisper something in Percival’s ear, make him suck in a breath – but she may have imagined it. 

It didn’t matter. They had made it. They had _actually_ made it. 

Mrs Picquery finally released them, waved at the rest of the office and at poor Goldstein – who had kept herself plastered to the wall in embarrassment and shame for the whole time – and finally ushered her husband out of the office. When their voices faded in the distance, the baritone rumble of her father melting away in the organized cacophony of the Macusa, Seraphina nearly cried in relief. 

And promptly elbowed Percival’s side. Gently. 

Sort of gently, at least. 

“ _Ouch_ – what was that for?” 

“ _Sugarplum_? Really?” 

“What, I thought it was a nice touch,” he replied, rubbing at his chest absent-mindedly. “Don’t like it? I have others. The classics: baby, doll, darling. Or something original. Pearly. Or Muffin. Phiny-Phina. Bunny – “ 

“Call me doll, Graves, and you’ll find yourself unclogging toilets as my new janitor trainee faster than you can say ‘fancy suit’.” 

He chuckled – waving her threats away. He muttered something about setting down for sugarplum, then. She replied reminding him she knew the charm to open his precious closet of tailored dinner jackets and the hex to turn them all bright pink. 

Settling in their familiar banter felt like slipping on an old, trusty pair of gloves – comforting and scaringly simple. It didn’t change anything, but it helped. On their way to Seraphina’s private office, no one paid them particular attention – beside the customary respectful nod and “Mister Director, Madame the President” combo. They didn’t look different than a couple of days before. They didn’t look different than five months ago, either. 

And snickering and hopping around with his hands plunged in his pockets, Percival didn’t look that different, either. 

Still. Still, she was still worrying. About tonight, and the apocalypse of a grapevine about to unleash on the Macusa, and the kiss. 

About him, always. 

When they reached her door, Percival stopped – eyebrows knitted together. “Migraine coming on?” he asked – pointing at the deep frown wrinkling her forehead. 

“Probably.” She forced a smirk on her lips – sarcastic enough not to make him suspicious. “Maybe I’ll call up Healer Grayson. I can’t handle both my parents _and_ my head splitting in two.” 

He smiled back – and leant it, adjusting a lock back behind her ear. “It’ll be fine. I have three siblings, and have been to family functions with more than thirty headstrong, outspoken Graveses crammed together in the same room. I can handle family drama.” 

Seraphina swallowed. “Thank you, Percy. Really. I’m not sure I even deserve that much help,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she realized it. 

He shrugged, the smile still on, and something in that gesture made her heart crack a bit more. “You’re Phina,” he said simply, “I’m Percival. This hasn’t changed. I don’t want this to change.” He stepped back. “I’ll leave you here. Take care. See you at dinner, _sugarplum_.” 

“Percy.” 

He waved her an apology, sauntering down the corridor – and looking absolutely unrepentant. Seraphina watched him go, one hand on the doorframe, the piles of today paperwork lying sadly on the desk behind it. The pinch of a headache was spreading across her brow – seeping through her skin. 

When she licked her lips, she started – clutching harder at the wood under her nails. 

Because she could still feel Percival’s taste. 

*** 

The Golden Grotto was exactly the kind of restaurant the name seemed to promise – so exclusive, luxurious and glittering with an otherworldly amount of gold. Housed on the top floor of one of the brand-new skyscrapers spiraling through New York heavens, the place took its name from the sprawling, curved wall arching over the main room like a half-dome – covered in thousands of mosaic pieces, all forged in pure gold. Stalagmites and stalactites carved in shimmering crystal edged the floor and the ceiling, filling the place with their soft glow. 

The other side of the room was completely made up of sprawling, multi-paneled windows, looking down on the dark expanse of the bay, so some smartass architect declared the Grotto’s patrons would really feel like dining in the nook of a gold-covered cavern. 

Seraphina had huddled in an actual cavern, once – during a manhunt in Vermont woods. It had been damp, crawling with worms and spiders, and had had absolutely nothing to do with this place. 

The warmth of the magickally-powered heating hit her as soon as the elevator’s doors opened on the room – the contrast with the January chill outside one step from dizzying. The air was heavy with the scent of orange and clove, the ghost of the decorative wreaths from last December, and ringing with clinking glasses, pearly laughs, and the hushed buzz of New York socialites hellbent on gossiping each other to death. 

A doorman in a dark green livery rushed in to take their coats. He helped Seraphina out of her silver fur coat with a deferent “Madame the President”, leaving her in the sleeveless madness of silver sequins she had selected for the occasion. It was a rather simple gown, hugging her body all the way to her feet – but the back of it opened all the way to the small of her back. She could feel the waves of heat roll down her bare skin, the cold touch of the pearl choker clasped around her throat. 

When her father had seen her emerging from the revolving doors of her hotel, she’d seen his eyes light up with a compelling mix of indignation and begrudging respect for her brazenness. Considering she was both a forty-year-old woman and the leader of the American Wizarding world, though, he had wisely kept his mouth shut. 

Percival, on the other hand, had looked shocked, too. And simply stared. 

Now she heard him moving behind her, weaving one hand around her waist. She could feel the friction of his white-gloved hand against her spine. 

“Phina, I know we’re in the middle of the newest campaign in the decade-long Senior Picquery-Junior Picquery Civil War and all, but I really need you to relax a bit.” Percival’s sounded pleasant, but she could guess the flicker of urgency underneath. “You’re so tense you’ll probably hex the waiter if he doesn’t get us breadsticks fast enough. And I can’t help you relax, because I can’t relax myself, considering this is my first time out since the whole mess.” 

Seraphina grumbled something under her breath. She cut her parents a look, making sure they were still busy getting rid of coats and soft-arguing with each other, and then flicked her gaze back on Percival. “You’ll do great. You always do.” 

“I feel like everyone’s staring.” He sucked in a breath. “And not in the good sense of the word.” 

“They’re staring because you’re stunning, Graves. And the eyepatch complements the tuxedo nicely.” 

A corner of Percival’s mouth twitched up. He curled his fingers around her hip, squeezing gently. 

“And you’re absolutely breathtaking, Phina,” he said in a whisper, “Guess we’re well-matched, at least.” 

His voice brushed the column of her throat. She found herself licking her lips. 

“Focus, Daughter.” Her Father’s voice was thundering, laced with the faintest hint of annoyance. She didn’t know if it was residual from before or brand new. “We should hurry. I hate being late.” 

“So do I,” Seraphina answered, tone clipped. She gently disentangled herself from Percival, and nodded at the green-clad waiter quaking beside her father. “Please, show us. Table for four.” 

The waiter squeaked a _yes_ , and rapidly escorted them through the maze of round dinner tables and clumps of shimmering patrons to one of the outermost table of the room, directly in front one of the windows – close enough to the kitchens to be served comfortably fast and discreet enough to make conversation enjoyable. Perks of position, she supposed. 

Hanging on her arm, Percival immediately caught sight of the cups of glazed shrimps daintily nested in the napkins as appetizers, and Seraphina grinned at his little grunt of approval. 

It seemed to excite him so much he almost forgot to worry about his eyepatch. 

Her good humor lasted exactly two minutes – the time it took them to sit down at the table, order wine, and for her mother to pose the innocent question she had dreaded all day. 

“So,” Mrs Picquery began, laying a small hand on Percival’s elbow, “my future son-in-law. Did you already pick a date?” 

Percival coughed so hard on his glass of water Seraphina was one step from standing up and patting his back. He recovered, but his eyes still looked watery. 

“I… Well, ma'am –” 

“Percival. I fed you PBJ while Mending your skinned knee. You know how you should call me.” 

Percival smirked. “Okay… Mrs P.” 

“Better. So, what were you saying, dear?” 

“Well…” Percival wheezed. Seraphina could read the secret signs of panic on his face, but he was a pro – and never made the mistake of looking her way. 

First rule of undercover – never give away your partner. 

“Well, we didn’t, actually. This year started in absolute madness, as you know, and things are growing better, but there’s still simply too much to do. We spend twelve hours a day at the Macusa – we barely have time to eat and sleep. And, well, to stay together, of course. I will always make time for that.” 

Percival turned to Seraphina, flashing her a smile brighter than several stars blinking in the night sky outside, and her heart skipped a beat. She’d never cease to feel amazed and slightly jealous of that particular talent of his – the ability to weave perfectly good stories in the blink of an eye and to coat them in such a thick layer of charm no one would ever doubt of their authenticity. 

_Broken my ass. He’s still so good it hurts._

Seraphina’s mother squealed in delight. Her father’s silence hung with an almost physical weight. 

“Oh, Phina.” Mrs Picquery heaved a heavy sigh. “I’m so glad you two finally took your heads outta your butts and decided to settle down. And that you finally caught this boy. It’s a wonder he was still on the market.” 

Seraphina didn’t waste time telling her mom not to talk about Percival like he was a juicy piece of meat - because she already knew that wasn’t a battle she had any hope to win. And then her eyes were still snatched on Percival’s, and he was grinning sheepishly through his blush, and that felt enough to make her smile, too. 

“Yeah,” she said, softly. “Yeah, I suppose I’m glad I did, too.” 

It was Percival’s turn to stare. Seraphina quickly looked away, and was genuinely grateful when a couple of waiters floated close with the first course – because it gave everyone something else to focus on. 

She briefly played with the duck breast on her plate, the fleshy chunks gleaming in their thick orange sauce. There was a knot of pain, there, nestled in her words – she could feel it as clearly as she would running her tongue across a fresh scar. It was a knot of things never said, of things never done – risks and chances they had long since stopped thinking about, and never took. It was a knot of memories, too. One of them burning hot behind her eyelids. Lips against hers. 

The _wrong_ ones. 

Seraphina pushed her tongue against the inside of her cheek, and tasted ashes. 

Percival brushed her hand, the one wrapped around the edge of the table. Her knuckles were bone-white. 

She met his eyes. She didn’t feel like joking anymore, worthy of it anymore, but she conjured up a smile all the same. 

“Your mother wants to know how it went,” he said. 

“Went what?” 

Her mother giggled, leaning across the table to pat her arm. Her shoulder banged into the wine bottle, her husband discretely setting it upright with a flicker of his finger. “But the proposal, Phiny-bean. The _proposal_!” 

“Oh. Sure… Sure,” Seraphina said. Percival had gone back to his plate, shoving himself with glazed carrots as gentlemanly as possible, but she could glimpse his grin out of the corner of her eye. 

Her mouth still felt caked in ash, and this game was growing increasingly dangerous, but she had no choice but to keep playing. Her guilt wasn’t Percival’s problem. He had done his part. It was her turn. She knew how to play almost as well as he did. 

“Well, it was discreet, of course,” she declared, curtly. “But… rather classy, I’d say. In Central Park, at the… at the beginning of the month. Isn’t that right, Percival?” 

She squeezed Percival’s hand - making sure it was okay with him. It was his life she was talking about, and his darkest times; he had every right to tell her to shut it up, if he felt like it was too much. 

Percival gave her a smart smile, but he still accepted her hand. 

“It is, my dear. But you let out a couple of things.” Percival hesitated, as if bracing himself for a duel, or a jump. Then his smile turned wider. “She left out the fact that had been snowing all day, and I was scared out of my mind I would have to call the whole thing off - and that instead it just cloaked everything in white and made the park look better than anything I could have conjured up. She left out I asked her to join me for a walk, during lunch break, because I’m an idiot, and that despite me being an idiot she still grabbed her fur coat out her chair and followed me - and that with that coat and the tweed pants and muddy boots she had walked with me to the gruesome O’Connell’s murder scene in that morning, she looked absolutely stunning. She left out the part where she smiled as I went down on my knee, and that even if we were surrounded in blindingly white snow, nothing looked brighter or purer than her smile, than her hair.” His thumb rubbed against her palm. Seraphina swallowed hard. “Most importantly, she left out the best part. The one where she said yes – but on the condition I will always cherish her, and respect her, and remember how important her job and her role and her dreams are. And I wouldn’t have taken her at any other price.” 

Silence. Suddenly, no one at the table was speaking – the clinking and chattering of the room flowing over them in waves, mixed with its magickal heat. Seraphina knew she should say something, make it normal - evaluate her parents’ reaction. But for a moment, she simply didn’t care. 

She squeezed Percival’s hand one more time, his skin warm and firm against her fingers. 

For a moment, she didn’t care about anything but that. 

His father’s chair creaked. He was leaning back, crossing his arms. The look he was pinning Percival with made Seraphina inwardly cringe. 

“For the life of me, Graves,” he said, his jaguar eyes glinting in the half-light, “I can’t decide if you’re a cunning little schemer, or just an insufferable sap.” 

“Oh, I’m most definitely a little schemer, sir,” Percival quipped back. “And I’m most definitely an insufferable sap, too – under the right circumstances.” 

Seraphina’s mother’s purple-gloved hand fluttered against her husband’s bicep, slapping it with a solid _thud_. He probably didn’t even feel it, but coupled with her glare, it did make him deflate a bit. 

Seraphina watched him plunge one hand in the pocket of his white double-breasted dinner jacket, fish out a cigar. 

Percival was leaning across the table before she could see him move, his shining silver lighter already out. 

Mr. Picquery growled a chuckle, let Percival lit the cigar up till it burned with its small amber dot, and readjusted himself on his chair. Lips baring fangs - a friendly snarl. 

“I do hope,” her father said, in a slow, conversational voice, “that you know I do not hate you, Percival. I positively hated some of the gentlemen my daughter associated with in the past, but I’m not that kind of father: the people Seraphina chooses to entertain herself with in her free time is no concern of mine, at least until it compromises either her health or my family’s honor. But now we’re talking about marriage. About commitment.” 

“You’re both public figures, every eye of the nation pinned on you, especially after the whole Grindelwald affair. Your wedding would be a loud statement. It would say things.” He takes a drag, the cigar blazing between his fingers. “I just want to make sure you are the kind of man who can handle that kind of pressure, and be a valuable companion for Seraphina.” 

“Ronald,” her mother said – hissed. Under the complicated tangle of orchid feathers and sequins of her hat, her lovely dark skin was pale with rage. A scent of sea salt and iris flowers, the thick smell of her mother’s magic, floated across the table, charged and electric. “We’ve already gone over it on the train. Percy is no stranger. Mercy Lewis, we’ve known him for thirty years. We know he’s decent and intelligent. We know the kind of man he is-” 

“No, Josephine,” Seraphina’s father snapped. “We know the kind of man he was. Not the kind of man he is _now_.” He exhales, slowly, and keeps his eyes fastened on Percival through the fluttering curtain of smoke curling up from his lips. “And I’m fairly sure he knows what I mean, too.” 

At some point, Seraphina had stopped breathing. Now she licked her lips, put down her fork, felt her muscles tense and coil in anticipation under her skin. 

_Fine, fine. If that’s a battle, I’m going to war - right now._

She was already half out of her chair, when Percival’s fingers tugged on hers. She was already going to Intimate her father to cut the crap and set on fire the gasoline wreckage they had been trudging through since they saw each other, when her best friend’s gaze stopped her. 

Percival had gone visibly paler, the thinness of his shoulders made even more startling by their slight slump, but he didn’t look wrecked. He didn’t look ashamed. His single dark eye flitted back to Mr. Picquery, and stayed there as he pulled a long, slim cig out of his waistcoat and lit it up with a flicker of his lighter. 

His hands were shaking slightly, but the gestures were curt, practiced. Confident. 

“I get it, Mister P.,” he said, using the title his twelve-year-old self had used when pleading his innocence for a broken Chinese vase. It could have been a lapse. Knowing Percival, it wasn’t. “In the last half year, I’ve been kidnapped, tortured, and held captive by an extremely dangerous political extremist who nearly succeeded in unraveling this organization from within and cost the lives of several good people and good Aurors.” He gulped, throat bobbing under his starched collar. “The life of a very good boy, too. My name has been cleared, I have been rescued – but I’m not used to indulging in hopeful delusions. Less than one month ago, I was lying on our dear Healer Grayson’s operation table, and my heart had just stopped. They brought me back, obviously. But you’re right – I’m not the man I was. I will never be that man again.” 

Percival sucked on his cigarette, eyelashes fringing his eye as he looked down – focusing on the act, the quiet elegance of it. His voice never shakes. “But I can promise you this, Mister P. I can promise I’m more than ready to spend every waking hour and every day of the life that has been given back to me, trying to make myself a man worthy of what I still have. Of my job, for one – the trust of my Aurors. My family. Seraphina’s affection.” He breathed out, Vanishing a sliver of dark ash before it could burn the tablecloth. “We have no intention of rushing things. We’ve been waiting for so long – we can certainly wait a bit more. And meanwhile, I’d like to use this time show you what I can still do, and what I can still be. The deal’s not bad, I hope. Does it sound agreeable, sir?” 

Seraphina’s father said nothing, keeping quiet for a time that with any other man would be unnerving. But she could see he was simply thinking. Pondering. She knew it, because she saw the same expression staring at her from the mirror almost every morning. 

She sat down, slowly. Percival’s hand still pressed on hers. 

Then, her father laughed. 

“I say you still know how to bargain, if nothing else,” he grinned. “That’s something I can respect.” 

Percival leant back against his chair. A shudder of weariness flashed across his face, gone in the blink of an eye. “I know you can.” 

Her father gave a final smirk, and cheerily dug back into his duck breast - her mother, tight-lipped and bristling, leaning over him to metaphorically roast him. 

Still, Seraphina recognized the signs. The battle was over. They may have even won it. 

She saw how white-faced Percival was now, how careful he was of keeping his breath even. And decided they deserved a prize. 

She rose to her feet, her gown falling around her legs in a whisper of gauze. Turned to her best friend. 

“I want to dance,” she said. “You joining me?” 

Percival blinked. “Merlin, yes, _please_ ,” he whispered, low enough to make her chuckle without her parents hearing it, and linked her arm with his. 

There was a small orchestra nested on a green-padded dais by the kitchen doors, and at some point of their verbal sparring match they had started playing. Pleasant little things, hushed and elegant, light enough to cover hushed whispers and not to force people to scream into each other’s ear. Now, though, they were playing something danceable. A slow dance. She and Percival shone their brightest with Charlestons, or waltzes, but dancing was one of the few things they weren’t picky about – they simply enjoyed it too much to pass the chance. 

Percival’s hand easily found its way around her waist. Her fingers curled around his shoulder. They fell in position, effortlessly, their bodies molding to each other, feeling the music creep up their spines. 

“You have been so _good_ ,” she told him, pressing her cheek against the warm curve of his shoulder. “So, so good at – whatever just happened at that table.” 

Percival chuckled. It sounded vaguely weak, though – tired. “Oh, I’m afraid I’m getting too old for this shit, Phina. Or maybe I’m just not your father. The man’s formidable.” 

“A formidable pain in the ass, yeah,” Seraphim groaned. 

“Like father, like daughter.” 

“I’d pinch you so hard if you hadn’t just been supremely perfect.” She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Percy. Those things you said, about the proposal…” 

“Don’t tell me. Too cheesy? I knew it, but I was kind of panicking –” 

“No. No, Percival. They were… beautiful. Really beautiful.” She chewed on her bottom lip, pressing her fingers against his chest. “I know you don’t feel like it now and I understand that but… Do not put yourself off the market, okay? You can still find someone. You can still be happy with someone. And whoever they are, they’ll still be the luckiest bastard in Wizarding America.” 

Percival’s lips quirked in a smile – but his eye stayed dark, glazed over with sadness. Under her fingertips, Seraphina felt his heartbeat thump louder. 

“Thank. Thank you, Phina,” he finally answered, the music swelling around them, his hand holding tighter on her waist. _Swirl, swirl, swirl._ “And the same goes for… the same goes for you. You deserve it.” 

“Yes,” she breathed out. 

“Yes,” he echoed. 

They didn’t smile, this time. But they held each other close, and lost themselves in the dance, and didn’t stop till the last note trembled in the air 


End file.
